May the bridges I burn light the way.

By the time the two of you broke apart, work was forgotten and he was since honked at by whomever was behind him after the light changed. You looked up, naturally, toward the traffic. With just the quick flit of your gaze, you recognized Jack’s truck. The slight squeal of the tires made you sigh internally, but you were already saying goodbye to the man you just hugged.

Jack pulled into the parking spot next to where you had parked, while you were beginning to open the door to your car, and dumped your purse. The coffee stayed—you weren’t giving up your caffeine in the midst of your boyfriend’s jealousy.

“Need a snack?” You asked casually, your lips parting for a sip.

Jack rounded the long bed of his truck, “I was thinking coffee.”

“You hate coffee jitters,” you countered.

Liar.

Jack squinted at you, stepping into the space of your open car door. You eventually sat while he barred you in. Jack hunched forward, one hand on the roof of the vehicle and the other on the ajar door.

“Who was that?” Jack drummed his fingers along the hollow-sounding metal.

“No one important to worry about,” you sucked your teeth at him. “I wouldn’t meet with my other boyfriend in such a public place, you know.”

“Not funny,” Jack screwed his mouth to the side.

“He was thanking me for helping him and his wife along with their newborn recently after she recovered from an emergency C-section,” you rolled your eyes, dropping your coffee cup into the nearest cup holder. “You never have to worry.”

“I know,” Jack shrugged, feigning dismissivness. You were his one certainty he somehow regularly felt unsure about; he was afraid to lose you. Sometimes he went about it all wrong. “I think I’m a bit of a dumbass.”

“Just a teeny bit?” You pressed your tongue to your teeth, doing a terrible job suppressing your smirk.

“Yeah,” Jack ended up smiling and dipped down, silently requesting an apologetic kiss. “We’re talking microscopic levels of dumbassery.”

You caved easily as you always did and brought a soft hand up to his bristled cheek. You didn’t hesitate to press a sugary sweet kiss to his lips. You thumbed away any gloss you left behind, but you admittedly enjoyed marking your man in small ways as much as showing possessiveness.

“I gotta go,” you hummed against his lips. “I’m gonna be late.”

“Now I see why you leave so early. I didn’t know I was dating the local heroine,” Jack smiled and began to back away.

“Ha, ha. That is rich coming from Captain America,” you rolled your eyes in amusement and reached for the car door. “Watch your good leg. See you later.”

“She always gets one last shot in before she goes for the kill,” Jack clutched his chest in mock pain.

a part of you knew he was desperate because of that. sure, you’d groan when someone tightly hugged you, but it was because of the stress you always hid in your shoulders. with andrew, it was different. you would hug him and he’d nuzzle his face into your neck, let his hands run down your back and to your hips and ass. he’d whimper into your skin. it was always loud in your ears, too, and made every part of you thump.

if he’d express his neediness through a simple hug, you knew he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. all you needed was to try a little harder.

at some point during the movie, andrew’s hands started moving from their original, balled up position on your right thigh. his fingertips danced along your skin before pushing themselves between them.

“what are you doing?” you asked, your voice low and curious.

his head moved now, too, and your hand in his hair with it. he stared up at you and said, “i want you to sit on my face.”

you choked out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. the straightforwardness caught you by surprise though he’d never been anything but.

“i’ve never done that.”

“why not?”

you shrugged. you didn’t lie with andrew. you couldn’t say you didn’t know why, or that the suggestion never presented itself. “i’ve always been too scared.”

then he laughed. it wasn’t mangled like yours. it was a laugh that only leaves people when you say something stupid. “why?”

you rolled your eyes. “i don’t know if you’ve seen me, but i’m not itty-bitty. i have a bit of weight on me and it’s always freaked me out.”

“that’s dumb.”

you pushed him back with your palm. “fuck you. what if i suffocate you?” he shook his head and stood up from the couch. you reached out and grabbed his arm and yanked him back down. he stumbled a bit and ended up kneeling in front of you. “i always think about it. i would like to, i’m just nervous.”

he looked at you with his signature stare — the one that coats his irises black and could probably burn through walls. this time it felt less hot with anger and more hot with horniness.

after what felt like eternity, his hands landed on your thighs. they moved over every inch of skin. then came his lips. he kissed your legs and wide thighs, and bit the skin of your ass that snuck out of your loose shorts.

his face settled in the dip between your thighs and nudged them a part with his nose.

“open,” he whined, and you followed. he kissed your cunt over your shorts and cursed.

he was panting like a dog while he kissed you. he groaned as he kissed your pudge that couldn’t hide behind the clothing he kept pulling. he could feel every groove of your thighs and it drove him to the point of rutting his bulge against your couch.

he pushed himself back after a few minutes and leaned against your coffee table. his hair was messy from your fingers and his lips were plump.

he pulled your leg a bit and said, “get up. take your clothes off.”

you nodded and slowly stood up. you were getting nervous now. you were facing away from him as you took your shirt off but when you only had your ‘thursday’ panties on and your semi-sexy bra, you turned to him. “what if you can’t breathe? and i kill you?”

he rolled his eyes again. “that’d be a nice way to go out.”

you studied him as you pulled your panties down and undid your bra. you tried to see if he was being serious, or if he made a face that showed he was lying and didn’t want you to lay all your weight on his face. but nothing changed. he kept palming his erection and staring at you as if you were his last meal.

you’d realized at the end — as he got on his knees and unbuttoned his jeans while staring at the patch of hair coating your cunt — that he’d been dreaming about this.

“here or my bed?” you asked.

andrew didn’t say anything but he got up and grabbed your hand. he dragged you down the hall to your room like he knew the place by memory and threw off his shirt while you stood by the foot of your bed.

he snuck his hand into his pants and stroked himself awkwardly. “you okay?” he asked.

you shrugged and hugged yourself. you were too bare. “sure.”

he walked over to the bed and sat down beside you. “do you want to do this?”

“yeah,” you answered with a nod. “in my brain it looked a bit different.”

“oh yeah? how?”

“i was just immediately naked,” you chuckled. “i didn’t have to take my clothes off, they just were off. and you don’t stare at me like that in my imagination.”

“but you sit on my face?”

“yeah…”

he scooted back onto your bed and kept moving until his back hit your headboard. he shimmied his pants and boxers lower down his body so that his cock sprung free; and he began stroking himself.

you felt odd standing there like a stranger to your own room, so you joined him on your bed, sitting on your knees in front of him.

“do you just sit or do you ride my face?”

you were getting wet at his words. you bit your lip and nodded. “i pull your hair and usually you’re cursing and moaning. i can always feel it.”

“that it?”

“you seem to enjoy it.”

he cracks a smile. “come here.”

you moved over to him and sit right by his face. you were nervous again. “promise that if you don’t want to do it anymore, you … pinch me or something.”

“that won’t happen.”

“well in case.”

“okay. so are you going to shut up and fuck my face or do i have to force you?”

you didn’t roll your eyes or say anything. you just swallowed the lump in your throat and placed a hand on the headboard. you then rested one thigh on one side of his face, then lowered onto his face. carefully. not all the way down.

“christ,” he mumbled, then pulled you down so you weren’t just hovering, but putting all your weight on his face.

you swore you heard him say, “so fucking wet,” and, “my fucking pussy,” but it was hard because he was sucking on your clit and it pulled a moan out of your throat.

you grabbed your tit and pulled your nipple as andrew started moving his tongue along your pussy. he was already finding his rhythm while you tried to find one with your hips. in your imagination, you just knew. but that was your mind. this was real life, and it wasn’t as easy.

you could hear andrew messily eating your pussy as you panted out his name against your headboard. your forehead was leaning against the cool wall, and it was the only coolness you’d feel. you were hot all over and sweat began forming on your chest.

your free hand snaked down to his head and you tugged on his curls. the movement made him moan against your clit, which he then softly bit. and that had you jerk against his face.

“oh fuck me,” you moaned. it felt more than good — his nose was hitting your clit just right and the more you leaned forward and ground onto him, the better.

so obviously, you kept it up.

andrew moved down the bed just a little bit and you leaned forward a bit more, too. your hands were still deep in his curls as you began fucking his face.

he was whining beneath you. you could both hear and feel it.

it felt like andrew was swallowing the slickness coating your pussy. he was drinking you up and sucking your clit with such fervor it drove you mad.

his tongue would swirl around your clit; he’d nearly makeout with it. his nails were digging into your ass, too. you were in fucking heaven.

there was this high pitched cry that came from andrew right after you said, “you’re such a pretty boy letting me ride your stupid face,” that led to you coming.

it was intense. you kept bucking onto his face and yanking at his hair as you came down from your orgasm.

you nearly forgot andrew was beneath you for a moment as you caught your breath, but him squeezing your ass and slapping it reminded you.

you pulled your thigh over his face and sat on your knees again. “sorry,” you said shyly, as if you hadn’t been suffocating him two seconds prior.

he licked his lips and shrugged. “it’s okay. i would’ve stayed there for longer if you didn’t move.” you brought a hand up to his face to wipe the wetness on his chin but he caught it before you removed anything. “nuh-uh. i want to think about this for longer than five minutes.”

you felt a blush creep up your chest. “okay,” you told him. “it was that good?”

“i want to be between your thighs until i fucking die.”

The day that John Carter gets married is the worst day of his life because the woman who’s walking up the aisle towards him, in a white dress worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, isn’t the one he wants to marry.  

She’s the daughter of oil baron, one who is about to inject billions of dollars into The Carter Foundation.

His real love, the one who has his heart is currently boarding a plane to Africa because you can’t stand the idea of him promising himself to someone else. You can’t even stand to be on the same continent, so you take up a position with Doctors Without Borders to escape the nuptials instead.

As his bride steps closer, he thinks of you in the early hours of this morning, tangled up in the hotel room sheets, your hair cascading across your features in waves. It had the last time, you’d both agreed, the last time you’d see each other, the last time you’d make love.

When you’d dressed and thrown your duffle bag over your shoulder to leave, he’d wanted to stop you. He’d almost had.

“Crys.” He had whispered and you’d paused with your hand on the doorknob, your head inclined towards him. “I love you.”

“If that were true…” You had sighed before twisting the handle. “You wouldn’t be marrying another woman.”

He hadn’t had anything to say to that. This marriage, it’s been in the works since long before he met you, it’s always his fate.

The wedding is a blur. John drinks his way through the entirety of it, trying to fill the hole in his chest with champagne and top shelf whiskey. It doesn’t chase away the agony of what he’s done but it numbs it just enough for him to preform his husbandly duties that night.

When he looks at the photographs afterwards, he doesn’t recognise the man standing beside the bride. It’s him, but it’s not at the same time. A ghost, he thinks as he takes in the tight pursed lip smile and the nothingness behind the eyes.

He spends the next year depressed, drinking to fall asleep, waking up hungover. He attends meetings discussing what to do with the new money that’s been poured into The Carter Foundation, barely listening and certainly not caring.

It’s in the car after one of those meetings that he gets the phone call. It’s from Mark Green, his old supervisor at the hospital where he used to work before he gave up helping people and became a figurehead for The Carter Foundation.

“I thought I should let you know that Crys passed away last week.” He tells John as he sits in the back of a limousine. “She caught TB when she was in Uganda… she just couldn’t come back from it.”

Everything changes in that moment, the world shifts and that cold, ice like composure that John’s erected starts to crack under the weight of such a devastating loss. He’d had this hope, this stupid little seed of possibility that maybe you’d find each other again, that you’d come back from Africa, he’d divorce his wife.

“The funeral?” He rasps, his voice splintering.

“She was buried over there with some of the kids she was working with.” Mark tells him woefully. “Luka said it was short but very moving. He did everything he could for her…”

But it wasn’t enough.

The words hang unspoken between them as the tears roll down his cheeks. He tries to chase them away with the back of his hand, but they just won’t stop coming. He’s still crying when he gets back to the house he shares with his wife. She’s away for the week at her father’s ranch in Texas, leaving him to mourn your loss in the darkness as he sits beside an unlit fire, drinking whiskey and taking sleeping pills one by one until the bottle is empty.

As their sedatives start to do their work, he clasps the only picture of the two of you in existence. It’s folded and rumpled from time spent in his wallet, but he can still see your face, your smile. He keeps his eyes open for as long as he can, memorising it.

When they close, he still sees it there in his head, calling to him as the photograph falls from his hand and John Carter slips away.

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